


At The Battle of Sarn Athrad.

by hennethgalad



Series: Concerning Dior. [9]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, war. family.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 09:10:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13338045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad
Summary: Beren passes on his mantle to Dior.





	At The Battle of Sarn Athrad.

 

    

 

   The Lindar gathered at Tol Galen in great numbers, more than Dior had imagined possible. The forest of Ossiriand must be bristling with them, he thought, and realised that he must have been watched by endless unseen eyes in his youthful roaming of the hills around Adurant. He did not know whether to be thrilled at the sight of so many or wary that the storm he had so eagerly awaited was finally upon them. He exulted at the chance to prove himself; to Nimloth, to his father and mother, to all those doubting Elves who could not, would not take seriously the words of one who, to them, was either a mere child or, worse still, a mere Mortal.

   His mother had been acting very strangely since word had come of the death of her father. The passing of Thingol seemed to Dior as shocking as though the sun had been taken from the sky by some foul craft of the Enemy. But the affront of his dreadful murder at the hands of the misbegotten Naugrim was an intolerable insult to all Elvendom. The fury of Dior, and of all the Lindar, was far greater than it might otherwise have been. In the dark hours of the night, he wanted to slay every Dwarf in Beleriand, but Nimloth was always there, soothing his rage with gentle words, lulling his spirit with ancient songs of the flourishing of the greenwood, and easing the gripping tension of his straining sinews with the skill of her loving hands.

   He had come to depend more and more upon his wife, who brought him back to the moment, to the necessity of caring for his boys, and holding his dear daughter in his arms; scattering all thought of strife and battle. The glowing calm of the sleeping Elwing filled him with a light stronger than any silmaril, his body seemed to melt and flow, reshaping his spirit into a cocoon of protective warmth, in which the only sound was the gentle breathing of the sleeping child. At such times, he knew that battle was a madness that Morgoth himself had begun, that no Elf who had ever held their child in their arms would consider a worthy deed.

   But the Naugrim had murdered his grandfather, from within the Girdle of Melian. Dior felt the black horror that he saw at times in the eyes of Gildor and Helin; the knowledge of how dark the acts committed by those misled by the lies of the Enemy could be. He felt ignorant and provincial. His sheltered life had not prepared him for the truth of the world, and the stories from his childhood, of Helcaraxë, of Alqualondë, which had seemed to him as no more than old legends, returned to him with sharp poignancy. Betrayal and treachery became words that truly meant something to him.

   His mother... Melian had 'died' with her husband, but Melian was no Elf, subject to the judgement of Mandos, and Melian, in form beyond the perception even of Dior her grandson, had come, in spirit form, to Tol Galen, to bid farewell to her only child. For days the nightingales had flocked around the house of Lúthien and Beren, filling the trees and the air, spreading their song through the quiet of the green isle.  
Lúthien, when her mother was finally gone, had shut herself away for several days, to mourn in solitude, admitting only Beren, who could do little but hold her still hand, and stroke the long dark hair back from her tear-wet face.  
But when she at length returned to dine with them, she was changed. Her eyes shone with a focus that frightened those caught in her gaze, she seemed, in part, to have departed from them in some vital way, to have followed her mother into the realms of the Ainur. The Lúthien of old was gone, and though her beauty and her song were as captivating as ever, the radiance of her spirit had faded, as though the Girdle had in truth reached even as far as Tol Galen. It might be, people said, that a part of Melian had been entrusted to her daughter, but with Thingol dead, and Lúthien herself a Mortal, rich in years, facing Death like all Mortals, Melian had been released from her chosen bonds, and had returned to her kind.  
  
   There was great grief among the Lindar, far more for the loss of Melian than Thingol, though he too had been loved; for his wisdom and love of beauty and harmony had made of Menegroth a place of joy and song that the Lindar delighted to sing of, though few had crossed the river to see for themselves. They gathered in the woods and fields around the house of Beren and Lúthien, in silence but for the endless hammer and hiss of the forges, working night and day to arm those who had ever borne naught but bow and dagger.

   Dior was teaching beginners the movements of the dance of the sword, almost envious of the agility of the wood-elves, when the messenger came.  
It was too much for Beren, he had almost fallen into his seat, gripping the arms of the chair as though he yet fell. Lúthien stood behind him, her arm on his shoulder, her pale face whiter than frost, her eyes fixed. Dior knew they would both feel to blame, for seeking the silmaril at all. He himself had seen it only once, at the midyear feast, it had shone on the brow of Thingol, woven into the garland of roses that crowned him. For the first time Thingol had appeared to Dior as a worthy husband for the wondrous Melian. He had looked at the back of his own hand and wondered when, if ever, any trace of the magnificence of his grandmother would show in him, but if it had, none of those close to him had spoken of it.

   But his mind returned to the messenger, now gulping water down as one parched with long thirst. The news was too grim to endure. Dior found his mind flitting away as a startled fly, and settling again on the dreadful words. Battle in Menegroth, the dead choking the halls, and Mablung, the right hand of Thingol, slain at the treasury door. Dior thought of Mablung, the scout, roaming the borders, year after year, century after century, never quite certain that the Girdle would hold. Dior wondered if some foresight had been granted to Mablung, and whether in some dark dream he had foreseen his end, and striven ever to thwart it. But in vain. An army of Naugrim in fair Doriath ! Dior choked, his fists clenched, his heart pounded, he burned hot and cold with fury, and turned to his father, who slowly lifted his eyelids and looked squarely at his son and nodded.

  
   Dior moved like an unleashed hound; long prepared plans for the last defence of Tol Galen were made over into the strategy for a campaign in the field against a host of heavily armed Dwarves. Lúthien watched in silence, but Beren seemed more himself than Dior had ever seen him, focused to a brilliant intensity that silenced all question and doubt. The leaders of the tribes of Lindar listened gravely, for the hungry axes of the Naugrim had been burning the forests for long centuries, growing careless in their haste, though the threat from the Enemy had muted the complaints of the Lindar. But now, seeing the real target of the Dwarves, the Lindar, almost as one, had turned to the heirs of Thingol to lead them in vengeance.

   Nimloth entered and stood beside him, slipping her hand into his. He had looked around from the map and smiled at her pale face.  
"Is all well my love ?"  
    She nodded, and rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb. "It is war then ? "  
He sighed "We must ride out, they may turn South, they may attack us here, they may be under the sway of the Enemy. We cannot know. It may be that a mere display of might will bring them to reason. We shall send heralds and hope to establish the truth of what befell Thingol, and the cause of this... this invasion. But my dear, you know we cannot sit by while an army slaughters our people, my mother's own father..." Dior stopped, the words were frozen within him, as though he himself had been blasted by some spell of the Enemy, his anger setting into a hatred like rock.  
   Nimloth had sighed, then tugged on his arm and whispered, softly but urgently.  
"Follow me." Still holding his hand as he took leave of his father, she led him through the house and into the crowded garden.

   They hurried through the thinning crowd of Elves, who drew back at the sight of the wrath in the face of Dior. Nimloth was silent as they walked up through the orchard, the air was soft and quiet, busy with insects, and a few deer, eating the windfalls, who glanced up, then ignored the familiar pair. Dior breathed deeply as they emerged through the larch trees and rowans onto the gorse and turf of the crest of the high hill that sheltered the house. A lone tree, that Dior had never noticed, suddenly moved, and was Bregalad of the Onodrim.  
  
   "Dior, hmm, little greatheart, the wood-sprite, soft-footed, clear-sighted, still-standing, wise-speaking, the enchantress-child, spawn of the Maia, "  
Nimloth held up her hand "Please, Bregalad, if you sing his name in full he will run away home. He is young, yes, even younger than you, as you know very well ! Tell him, in as few words as you may, what you propose."  
 

   The great green-brown eyes of the Ent narrowed for a moment, and Dior wondered if he was offended at being interrupted. But Nimloth was right, he could not endure the long speech of the Onodrim even when at ease; in time of emergency their endless elaborate formalities made his teeth clench with frustration. He kept his breathing steady and waited.  
   "Ha, yes, hm, the haste of the Elves... Very well, very well. I greet you, Dior, may your roots find the water and your flowers bathe in the light.  
My intention is to summon the Ents, and our trees, the Quick among them, hm, though I do not know how many of us there are. But we are strong, wood-sprite, we are stronger than you know, and the Naugrim have damaged too many of our kin for us to endure.  
We hold the forests, child of Lúthien, and we shall guard the hills, as you march for the North up the valleys of Gelion. The Naugrim move slowly, they bear the treasure of Menegroth, and much spoil, and many wounded.  
   Hm. Yes. Dior, son of Beren, together we can blunt their axes ? Ha, too many of my kin, my friends, my dear Orofarnë, perished like the grasses... Hoom ! " His great voice echoed across the hilltop, sending the birds scattering in alarm "Stop them, Dior of the green isle ! And we shall have peace in the forest once more. "  
  
   Dior, round-eyed in awe, his neck straining from looking up at the majestic height of the angry Ent, searched for words to thank him. But beside him Nimloth began to sing, her low voice well suited to the rolling, beating melody, that flowed like a spring, sparkling into the air and streaming down the hillside among the grasses.

  
****

  
   Beren stood beneath one of the chestnut trees of Sarn Athrad, weary beyond speech, as his esquire unbuckled his battered armour. The Naugrim had fought like... like... his mind groped fruitlessly, he had seen nothing before to match the spinning axes of the heavily armed and armoured Dwarves. Only the most experienced of the Lindar, and the small troop of Sindar from Tol Galen, had been able to take them head on, the remainder of the lightly-armed Elves had been ordered to stay back, and fill the sky with arrows.  
Dior had fought with the grace of a dancer, Beren had resolved to set aside a little time that night to weep with joy and pride that his son could fight with such skill, such elegance, such finesse. He wanted to gallop home to Lúthien, to see her eyes shine again, safe in the knowledge that their son had truly inherited the swiftness of the Eldar, and the might of the Mortal.  
   

   Beren winced, he had broken another rib, breathing was painful, the final blow struck by the king of the Naugrim, before Beren had finally slid his blade home into the gap between chest-plate and faulds, where his repeated blows had weakened the chain mail beneath. But how the Dwarf had wielded the great axe ! Beren could still see it, gleaming in the bright sun, seeming to leave a solid trail through the air, a bright shadow, the footfall of its arc, heading for his chest with force enough to almost knock him over; had he not been so armoured himself, that axe would have cut through him like a candle.  
   He would thank the smith in person, though the armour was ruined. An aide brought a tray of goblets, with the watered wine for those with lesser injuries. There were few wounded, the axes killed most of those they struck, many had lost limbs and perished from the shock.  
   The tavern, at Beren's command, was noisy with the urgent haste of the healers, calling endlessly for hot water, more bandages, and more bearers to carry out those they could not save.  
   Beren stretched carefully as his esquire knelt to the straps at his ankles, and to his surprise Gildor was there, with two folding camp-stools under his arm. Gildor, though trained to arms, had found Alqualondë too much to tolerate, and vowed to turn aside from the ways of violence. He had offered to put in some practice to stand at the last, should Tol Galen be attacked, but Beren had told him that the world needed more than one type of Elf, the work of the scholar being vital. He had smiled then and pointed out that in any case he would prefer Gildor to stay alive, and sing songs about him to his grandchildren, and all those yet unborn "For how else shall I achieve glory if none live to remember my valiant deeds !"

   Gildor unfolded the stools and bowed to Beren, who sank down with a great sigh, and gulped back the whole goblet of weak wine. He sighed again and smiled wearily at Gildor, who pulled a silver flask from his pouch and offered it to Beren with a warm smile. Beren grinned and took a mouthful of the heady miruvor. The peace seeped into his blood, he could feel his back settle into ease, and the tingle of vigour reaching down into his fingertips. They sat in silence, watching the survivors search the battlefield for the living who were beyond calling for aid. The quiet was shocking after the appalling noise of the battle; each side had begun in song, the Naugrim beating time on shield or even helmet, singing in their oddly deep voices unknown words of blood and death. The Lindar, vastly outnumbering the Sindar, had sung as one, a haunting tune that set the hairs prickling, with contrasting melodies that built in intensity, spiralling into a storm, a whirlwind of destruction, until the final notes were almost a scream, and the first great volley of arrows had descended upon the Naugrim like deadly rain.

   Beren smiled at Gildor "Thankyou."  
"No, my lord, it is for me to thank you. But for your valour I should be fleeing South in fear for my life."  
Beren gave a half smile and snorted softly "No, not mine. The arrows of the Lindar set the Naugrim to flight. Those they did not slay."  
Gildor smiled and handed the flask back to Beren, who took a deeper draught and sighed again. Gildor sipped the miruvor "I watched from the Riversmeet, there is no doubt. You checked their advance and pinned them in place for the Lindar to shoot. If it were not for the heavily armed Sindar, the Naugrim would have routed them. You did this. Victory is yours, Beren Erchamion, and it will be my honour to tell your tale to your grandsons when they are old enough to understand it."  
   "Victory..." Beren sighed again "These are not orcs nor creatures of the Enemy. I watched their king die, by my own hand, and his mind was open, his conscience clear. He believed he was in the right. The murderers of my Lúthien's father ! They were avenging the deaths of the murderers ! I wanted to kill him again ! So many dead !  
   That dreadful jewel, it seems to drink the blood of all who touch it ! It thirsts as Ungoliant, it is never sated ! "  
   "What will you do with it ? Have you thought ? "

   Beren shook his head. "It is not mine to bestow. It was the bride-price of Lúthien and I did not grudge it. I shall not touch it again, lest it cast its spell on me even now. It belonged to her father who is fallen. It is hers now, until... until she pass it on to Dior."  
"There he comes now." Gildor pointed to the other side of the river where the forest sent scouts and forays of trees down into the fields of the valley. Beren could see nothing in the haze of distance. He looked at Gildor patiently, and Gildor, his grey eyes hooded, smiled politely. "You shall see him soon, he is riding with his troop, he is hale."  
   

  But minutes passed, the esquire bore away the battered armour and returned with a tray of pies, and a great flagon of mead. Beren relished the cool sweet liquid soothing his hoarse throat; he scarcely knew he had been shouting, the noise had been horrific, and the foul stench of guts and blood and other things that none should ever have to see or smell...  
The cold horror of his blackest memory returned to him, his hand, halfway to his mouth, froze, as the memory of Tol-in-Gaurhoth filled all his spirit with darkness. To his astonishment, he felt the hand of Gildor gently pat his arm, as though he were a hound, or a frightened child. He shook himself; in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, in the black dark, drowning in the conflicting waves of the enchantment of Finrod and the necromancy of Gorthaur the cruel, he had been truly a frightened child. But his heart was warmed by the touch of Gildor, who understood the shadow on his heart, and whose kindness and long loyalty had moved him to unbend his courtier manners and touch his lord to comfort him.  
   Beren smiled his gratitude, but Gildor nodded to the distant fields, and even Beren could see the riders approach, and the tall figure in front, still on his favourite horse, a gift from Nimloth, its colour exactly matching the hair of Dior himself. He rode as though he were a part of the horse, far more comfortable than Beren had ever been, but then Dior had never been a hunted outlaw, never... He gulped down his mead, suppressing the tremors. The battle seemed to have awoken memories that had ceased to trouble his dreams for decades of blissful peace. He longed with a terrible ache for the arms of Lúthien, he wanted to bury his head on her shoulder and weep, while her warm hands stroked his own, greying hair. He was almost seventy. Though a mere youth in Elven years, his bones daily offered stern and irrefutable warning that his time was drawing to an end. He watched his son approach, Gildor forgotten at his side, and marvelled that he himself, a mere Mortal among Mortals, could have had any part in the shaping of such a creature.

   Beren knew that the Elves resented his Mortal blood, resented him. They wanted Lúthien back, to shine among them forever. They would never forgive him, nor could he blame them. They would not speak, naturally, but he knew...  
   As for his son, marriage and fatherhood had brought a deep peace to Dior, his tranquility was of the kind that eases tension in a whole room, and the mere sight of him made people smile. But the beauty of his son was a matter of song, and his admirers, while respecting his joyously happy marriage, yet hung about in places where he might walk, in mere hope of a glimpse of his lovely face.  
   And finally, the last doubts of Beren were laid at rest. His son had been dazzling, a point of sharp focus in the bloody mist of the battle, his voice piercing the tumult as a single true note amid the boastful shouts and the dreadful cries of agony. Beren sucked in a shuddering breath; Dior was a warrior. He himself could lie in peace, when the time came; the strong hand of his fine son would take up the burden, and bear the ring of Barahir. He thought of his own father and smiled, poor Barahir would simply not believe his eyes, even if Lúthien appeared at his side in that other world that some folk said Mortals returned to after their brief visit to Middle-earth. Lúthien was fascinated, and confessed to keen curiosity about this 'other world', but without impatience. "I am too happy and comfortable here to really wish to leave" she had said, and he had suppressed his amused cynicism and agreed.

   He could see the smile of his son, but behind it a strangeness. Beren had the impression that Dior was making an effort to stop himself from looking over his shoulder. Beren searched the troop behind, but they rode in lines of four, neat and composed, all seemed well. But to Beren, his son rode as one who feared pursuit.  
Gildor made the slight sound with his breath which he used to signal his intention to interrupt a silence. Beren turned with a smile.  
   "My lord, it seems to me that Dior suspects pursuers are behind him, it may be that the Naugrim..."  
   But Beren smiled and held up his hand "Gildor, as a soldier, I promise you that if a force of Naugrim were headed this way, those Elves would not be trotting in formation. One, at least, would be galloping towards us with the news..."  
   "I apologize, my lord, as you know, I laid aside my sword long ago..."  
There was a joyful cry from Dior, he pressed his mount and galloped the last stretch, and threw himself to the ground. Beren rose and they embraced violently, slapping each other on the back, and squeezing until Gildor said calmly.  
   "His rib is broken."  
His familiar voice cut through their heartfelt greetings, and Dior stepped back, a distressed look on his face "Father ! Why did you let me crush you like that ! I am still in armour, you might have..."  
   "My dearest, my beloved child, I would rather break a rib with my own hand than forego embracing my son after his first battle, a victorious battle, indeed, in which he avenged the murder of his mother’s father. I am choked with pride, dear Dior, I can die happy, knowing that there is nothing to fear. You have proved yourself worthy, in the sight of all, you are indeed Dior Eluchíl, and you have avenged his death." He paused, taking in the solemn expression in the eyes of his son. Such beauty in a male was something he had never seen before, even Thingol could not compare. He thought of his own father, and an inspiration came to him, and he turned to Gildor and gestured to him to rise. Gildor stood attentively, and Dior looked from the shining eyes of his father to the bland, but warm smile of Gildor. There was a pause, the air seemed filled with expectation. Beren took a deep breath.

   "My son, Dior Eluchíl, child of the fair Lúthien. You are also of the House of Bëor, though few of us remain alive. This will be my last battle, my son, come what may. I shall soon be seventy. I am injured in more than body, dear Dior, I am... I am old. It is time for you to wear the mantle of Thingol, and take his seat at Menegroth. But I would have you wear this, in memory of Barahir my father, who bore it before me, and of Finrod Felagund, who gave it to him."  
   He drew the ring from his finger, to the sound of gasps from both Dior and Gildor. Beren smiled to himself, for a moment he felt like one flying, looking down on tiny figures standing beneath the broad-fingered leaves of the chestnut. The gasp of Gildor was at the death of Finrod in the... long ago. The gasp of Dior was dismay that his father had so little time left, that he must soon part with him, beyond the ending of the world. But Beren took the forgotten hand of Dior and slid the jewelled serpents of the ring of Barahir onto the fair Elven hand of his son, and felt tears burn his eyes. When he looked up, Dior also wept, and he felt through his skin that beside them, Gildor too was weeping. But Dior spoke.  
   "Father." He said, as though the ring had not existed "The Onodrim... The Ents have destroyed the Naugrim. The very forest rose against them. They have perished from the face of Arda and will trouble us no more. Those who witnessed the... the slaughter... they are being comforted by the healers. The wrath and fury of the Ents has been greater than we could have imagined, father, and their strength ! But they have lost many of their people, father, for the Naugrim wielded a fire that clung to the limbs and hair of the Onodrim and burned them..." His beautiful face contorted into a grimace of horror. "The screams, father... I... I wish we need not have asked their aid, nor ever taken to such... to all this... to killing. At the least, I cannot bear to think of the Onodrim in battle again, we should..." He paused, as the words of his father reached his battle-stunned mind. He looked at the ring on his hand in astonishmnt, it had been a part of his father’s hand for so long that it had become invisible to him; but the green eyes of the serpents twinkled at him, as they twined endlessly round his finger. He thought of Finrod, and realised with a shock that Finrod Felagund himself had worn this very ring, on his own hand. As the tears rose to his eyes, he looked calmly at his father and said steadily

 "I shall not ride to battle with the Onodrim again father, despite their strength. It is too... It is wrong. Nimloth is right, we need them, Arda needs them, but not for battle."

 

 

 

 


End file.
